Only, Always
by Morganperidot
Summary: Nikita and Michael after the series finale. Two chapters added 2/9.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me, just the imagination.  
  
Only, Always  
By Morganperidot  
  
Nikita laid on her bed with her eyes closed, instrumental music playing low, breathing deeply, evenly, body relaxed, thoughts floating freely to the place they always sought, to the person they always sought out.  
  
Michael.  
  
Michael Samuelle, the one she let slip away, beautiful Michael, glorious Michael. In her mind she saw him, felt him: the smooth curves of his body, the gentle caress of his fingertips, the velvet softness of his lips on hers, the way his body fit against and within her.  
  
Michael.  
  
Only, always, Michael.  
  
Somewhere in the distance the phone was ringing, and Nikita brought herself back to the present, opening her eyes to darkness and solitude. She picked up the cell phone from the nightstand. "Yes."  
  
"Josephine." A word like a memory, a voice like hope.   
  
"Michael?"  
  
"I need to see you."  
  
She knew they shouldn't; it was dangerous for both of them and for his son, Adam. "We can't," she said, hungry for his reaction, the next breath, the next word. She could see his eyes and hear his heartbeat, hear her own in tandem. If she reached out mentally she could touch him, be with him for a moment, a brief wonderful moment.  
  
"Do you remember the Starlight?"  
  
Nikita smiled. "I remember," she said, thinking of how the stars looked beyond the dirty window of the ratty Starlight Motel as he lay beside her, safe and warm. No one will ever harm you again, she had promised his sleeping form. "We can't be seen together."  
  
"No one will see us."  
  
"You don't know that, Michael. If someone finds out...if someone knows that you can be used against me..." She sighed. "We can't."   
  
There was a long silence, and then Michael said simply, quietly, "You don't want to see me."  
  
"I do, but..."  
  
"Tell me the truth."  
  
"We've always been so bad at that."  
  
"Just tell me."  
  
She wanted to, more than anything - anything except wanting to hold him and have him hold her. She knew she should say that it was over, in the past, and he had to put it behind him; they had certainly told each other that lie enough times. But something in that particular moment - that single, fragile, vulnerable moment - made her think twice, and think about the way his lips felt, the way his hands felt... "I love you," she said, without thinking about that at all.  
  
"Tonight."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I love you too."  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
Michael slid a lock of his freshly dyed blond hair behind his ear. It was an old habit, one he had long before he was sucked into the vicious whirlpool of Section One, long before he learned what it felt like to live each day waist deep in pain, violence, shame, and fear - and before he knew what it was like to be reclaimed.  
  
He blew out the smoke from his cigarette and watched it float in the stuffy air of the small motel room. He had smoked when was younger too, when he had seen himself as a rebel, smoking, wearing his hair long, dressing in leather, and riding a motorcycle. He smiled darkly, thinking about how he allowed the Section to twist everything he was.  
  
Now he only smoked rarely and never around his son; he wouldn't expose Adam to that poison. But something about it - the very poison of it - made him feel free. And it was his moments of freedom that made life worth living.  
  
He knew Nikita was afraid; he was afraid too. But he was also as tired of being afraid as he was of being alone. It had been the same in the Section - it got to a point where he needed to be loved more than he needed to be safe - maybe even more than he needed to live. And now he needed to see her eyes, see her look at him the way no one in his life ever had. Simone had understood him, and Elena had adored him - but only Nikita combined those two things with forgiveness. Michael didn't believe his soul could be saved; there were too many terrible things he had done for any God to do that. But in Nikita he found the peace he needed in life, and if he could give some measure of that in return, that was the most he would hope for.  
  
He stubbed out the cigarette and sighed, looking out the window, wondering if she would come. He could accept it if she didn't; he would spend the night in this room alone for appearance sake and then in the morning go pick Adam up from the friend's house where he was having a sleepover. Maybe he wouldn't call her again, but he probably would. She was in his blood, an addiction that wouldn't die until he did. He would always need her.  
  
Only, always, Nikita.  
  
She had given him life - breathed life into him - in the darkest time in his life, and they had built together the castle of miracles and lies that had kept him going. He knew that without her he would have died as an operative of the Section; it would have only been a matter of time before he would have allowed that to happen. It would have been easy enough. It was possible Operations - Paul - had suspected as much and that was why he made Nikita Michael's material, to provide him with a fresh challenge. But Paul couldn't have understood what Nikita meant to him, the way the glow in her eyes touched his heart, the way that heart fluttered and flip-flopped when he looked at her.  
  
He had fallen for her so quickly it was ridiculous, and he had fallen so hard that he had been irretrievable.   
  
Michael looked at the door when he heard the footsteps, quiet enough that most people would have dismissed them, but he had learned to listen well, to distinguish every sound that might mean danger. His gun was in his hand, a handgun registered under a false name. No one else knew him as Michael; no one knew who or what he had been. No one suspected that the quiet, polite man with the young son was a professional killer who had tortured and murdered countless people.  
  
There was the sound of a single hard knock on the door. Michael shoved the gun in the waistband of his jeans at his lower back. He didn't think he would be killed in some dingy motel room, but he knew better than to discount anything entirely. He walked to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.  
  
And there she was, Nikita, a vision straight out of one of his dominatrix fantasies: black hair that curled in at the chin, impenetrable dark glasses, black leather gloves stretching down from the elbows and matching boots that went up to the knees, and a black dress that laced up on the top and ended dangerously close to her groin. Without looking he saw the gun in her right hand, felt it there. He knew what a gun felt like. He always would.  
  
She pushed against him with her left hand, and he stepped backwards into the room, watching silently as she closed and locked the door. He wanted to smile, but he didn't, not yet. Michael could wait. He liked that there was time to wait.  
  
Nikita brought the gun up as she went to him, her movements slow and sensual. He wondered what the moment was when he knew he loved her, when everything finally fit together between his mind and his heart. She used the gun to gently push back the hair that had fallen forward against his cheek. "I never thought of you as a blond," she said softly, the gun trailing down the back of his neck, then down his back, sending shivers through him.  
  
"I thought of you like this."  
  
"Naughty boy." She slid the gun across his rear - and Michael caught her left hand with his right before she could go for his gun - then spun out of her embrace a fraction of a second after she dropped her gun, plucking his gun by the grip and maneuvering out of the way of the kick she sent at him. He tossed his gun on the bed and went on the offensive; Nikita met his moves with skillful ease. For a while they continued the dance, until Michael had her pinned against the wall. He pulled the glasses from her face and saw the fire in her eyes. "Don't make me hurt something we might want to use later," she said coolly.  
  
Michael smiled and released her - then grabbed her to him, her eyes flashing, the muscular strength of her slim body under his hands, and brought his lips to hers, hers parting beneath his as her nails dug into his rear. He bit her tongue lightly, and she pressed him closer, so close the heat surged up inside him. He pulled the dark wig from her head and released the long flow of her blond hair. Nikita's hands were on the button of his jeans, undoing, pulling down the zipper, and his own hands found their way across her breasts to the laces, undoing them until she pushed him away. Michael steadied himself, steadied his breathing, and then pulled his white shirt up and over his head. Nikita unzipped her boots and kicked them off; Michael discarded his shoes. Then she turned around, and he undid the zipper of the dress and watched it fall to the floor. There was nothing beneath it. As she brought her hands together he said, "Keep the gloves on." He freed himself from his remaining clothes and took one gloved hand in his as he led her to the bed, then on it and beneath the covers, beneath him, until there was nothing in the world but the two of them joined as one.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Nikita trailed a finger down his chest. "You've stayed in shape."  
  
Michael smiled. "Thank you." He lifted her finger and brought it to his lips to gently kiss it. "I've missed you," he said softly, his eyes shining.  
  
"I've missed you."  
  
"Would you bring me back in?"  
  
Nikita studied his face for a moment. Would she? She could, of course - whether he wanted it or not. As Operations she could do pretty much anything she pleased short of abandoning Section One. She knew that even if he wasn't 100% of what he had been he was better than the majority of the operatives she had, and she could definitely use his experience and skills. So, if it were only a matter of what might be best for the Section, then yes, she would bring him in. But she didn't want that for him, and she didn't think he wanted it either - especially since he could have found a way in himself if he did, and he hadn't.  
  
Or had he?  
  
"Is that what this is?" she asked. "You want back in?"   
  
Michael said nothing.  
  
"Do you want back in the Section?" Nikita asked, as if her question hadn't been clear enough the first time. Michael turned away from her and slid off the bed, providing her with the full view of his naked back and rear. He walked over to the small window and stood there silently. "Michael..."  
  
"Do you think that is what this is?" he asked without looking at her.  
  
"I'm not quite sure what this is."  
  
He looked over at her. "You said you loved me."  
  
"We've both said a lot of things, Michael." He looked back at the window. "Just tell me. Do you want back in?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then why?"  
  
"I told you why. Not everything is about the Section, Nikita. Not even for us." Michael turned toward her. "Not for me. Not anymore."  
  
"You..."  
  
"I don't want the Section. I need to be with Adam. I need to be out." He walked over to where his pants laid on the floor and bent to pick them up. Nikita watched as he walked around the room gathering his clothes.   
  
"I don't want you to go."  
  
"You were right," he said. "This was a mistake."  
  
"I didn't say that." He sat down on the end of the bed and began pulling on his pants. "Besides, we still have some time..."  
  
"No. We're out of time. Get dressed, Nikita. Go home to the Section."  
  
Nikita's anger spiked within her. "You bastard," she said, getting out from beneath the covers. "You goddamn selfish son of a bitch. This has always been about you, what you want. If you want to end it, that's fine, we can do that. But you are going to listen to me first."  
  
Michael got off the bed and pulled up the pants, zipped, and buttoned them. Then he brought his gaze to hers, steady and beautiful. Damn him for still being so beautiful, Nikita thought. "I'm not your operative," he said. "I don't..."  
  
"Right, you're not my operative. You're my lover. How can you be so insecure after all this time?"  
  
"How can you be so cruel?"  
  
The statement shocked her. "Me? You think I'm cruel? I'm not the one threatening to leave. I'm not the one..."  
  
"You're the one who lied." He reached for his shirt, and she grabbed it from him and threw it across the room.  
  
"Lied? What lie?"  
  
"Telling me you loved me."  
  
Nikita slapped his face hard. After a moment of looking at the bright red mark on his cheek she said, "Get out of here. Don't ever contact me again. If you do you will be considered a hostile. I'll have you brought in the White Room and..."  
  
"Bullshit."  
  
"Try it."  
  
"What would you do to me?" Michael asked quietly. "Shock me? Cut me? Beat me?"  
  
Nikita looked at him, his gorgeous chest and his soft, intelligent eyes. No, none of those things, never anything like that, not him. No matter how angry he made her, she would never do those things. That slap was clearly as far as it would go. "Don't push me. I could have those things done. I could have you tortured. I could have you killed."  
  
Michael bent down and picked up her gun, then held it out with the grip toward her. "Get it over with," he said.   
  
She went to him and took the weapon. "I'm not playing this game, Michael."  
  
"No more games. Two in the heart, one in the head."  
  
"Bastard."  
  
"Do it, Nikita."  
  
"Don't push me!" He took a step closer and closed his hand over hers and brought the muzzle of the gun against the skin over his heart. For a moment they just stood there, and she watched his chest rise and fall. Then Nikita slid her finger from the trigger, the idea of the weapon discharging into him terrifying her. She moved the gun away and dropped it back on the floor. "How could you think I don't love you?"  
  
"How could you let me think it?"  
  
"I do."  
  
"I know."  
  
Nikita smiled. "You are really crazy."  
  
"Sometimes," he said.  
  
Nikita went back to the bed and crawled onto it. "Take off your pants."  
  
"Is that an order?"   
  
"Yes."  
  
Michael smiled and obeyed.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"What now?" Nikita asked as Michael zipped up her dress.  
  
"We do what we always do."  
  
She turned around. "Which is?"  
  
"Live each day." He said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.  
  
"You don't want to come in?"  
  
"No." He slid a lock of hair behind her left ear. "Do you want to come out?"  
  
"Someday." She went to the mirror and pinned up her hair, then put on the wig.  
  
Michael pulled the ring out of the pocket of his jeans. "Only, always, you."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Will you marry me?"  
  
Nikita's hand stopped in midair in its movement toward putting the sunglasses on her face. Michael watched her meet his gaze in the mirror. She turned. "What?" she said again. Michael walked over to her...and went down on one knee. He took her left hand in his hands and slid on the ring, a white gold band featuring a huge marquise-cut ruby with small full-cut diamonds on each side.   
  
"Yes or no?"  
  
"Get up," she said, pulling on him until he was on his feet and then grabbing his face in her hands and plowing her tongue between his lips. The kiss was hard, bruising, and Michael couldn't breathe, but it didn't matter; it didn't matter if he died like this. She held him tightly, and he held her. When she broke the kiss she pressed him to her, and he closed his eyes. Her hand slid into his hair.   
  
"Nikita."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Soon. Very soon." She released him and stepped back, then picked up the sunglasses, her hand was shaking ever so slightly as she put them on and then slipped on the gloves, right first, then the left.  
  
"Be careful."  
  
"Be safe."  
  
They looked at each other a moment longer, and then Nikita pulled open the door and left.   
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
To be continued? Please review or send email to: morganperidot@cs.com. 


	2. Chapter 2: Ghosts, Everywhere

Chapter 2: Ghosts, Everywhere  
  
Nikita studied the hand-held computer panel outlining the mission profile. She was on the perch with her second-in-command, Grace, and the red team leader, Joseph. "Why are there so many team members?" Nikita asked. "We should be able to do this with three, not five." She pointed to the egress point. "We only need one person covering egress."  
  
"The probability of hostiles infiltrating the area is high," Grace said. Nikita looked up at her. She was approximately Nikita's age with long red hair pulled back tightly. She was dressed in a black skirt and short-sleeved top; Nikita wore a white pants suit. Joseph, also in the same age range with short brown hair, wore black.  
  
"You ran a sim?" Nikita asked Joseph. She knew what her predecessor would have done: told Michael to do it with three people. Michael would cover the egress and take on all comers with gun in each hand - whether there were two hostiles approaching or 200.  
  
"Yes - I followed procedure," he said coolly.  
  
"Of course," Nikita said, with only a touch of sarcasm. Joseph showed no reaction. "You'll do it with four. Rework the profile and resubmit it in a half hour." She handed the panel to him, and Joseph left without a word.  
  
"He's capable," Grace said.  
  
"I know," Nikita said. "But that has never been enough." Grace turned to leave, but then she hesitated. "What is it?" Nikita asked.  
  
"Did you really work with Michael?" Grace asked. Grace had come to Section One from Section Three, where she was a top-level profiler and tactician with some field experience.  
  
"Michael?" Nikita said, as though he weren't constantly in her thoughts. In her mind's eye she saw a flash of thigh, soft lips, and beautiful, intelligent eyes. She looked down at the ring on her finger, the engagement ring. Michael.  
  
"He's something of a legend in the other Sections," Grace was saying, "like a superhero."  
  
Nikita had to fight to keep a straight face. Oh, Michael would love that one. She could easily imagine the curve of his lips, the quiet laugh... "He was just a man," Nikita said.  
  
"The things they said he did - crashing through windows, disabling and killing with unshakable calm, charging into gunfire without..."  
  
"He did what he had to," Nikita said, but she knew better. Michael had done what no one else could or would ever do. "He was just man, Grace, just an operative." Just the most incredible creature to ever walk the halls of the Section...  
  
"Of course," Grace said, and she left the perch.  
  
Nikita walked to the windows and looked out at the Section. Michael. Did people really still talk about him? She had always known that he was extraordinary - that was why she loved him and why Paul and Madeline had put up with his anomalies. No one could do what he did the way he did it, with quiet intelligence and unquestionable skill. Another man would have been canceled for his actions, but not Michael, he was someone no one could really touch...except her. She had finally found her way inside the rich, golden depths of his soul. And she knew she was never going to find her way out.   
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Michael woke with a start, his heart pounding, soaked in sweat. He grabbed his gun from under the pillow and checked that it was loaded. He knew it was, but he checked anyway. He closed his eyes and forced his breathing and heartbeat back to a more normal level.  
  
He had nightmares almost every night - with the exception of those few he spent with Nikita. The dreams were always variations of the same thing: losing Adam, losing Nikita, being brought back into the Section. The worst variation was the one he had tonight, the one where Nikita was killed and he was forced back in to run Section One. Adam was put in foster care, and Michael knew he would never see him again. It was the worst of everything he could imagine, and his imagination served it up every now and then to truly terrify him.  
  
He was aching for a cigarette, but he went to check on Adam first, then took a quick cold shower. Then he dressed and went outside. It was late May and warm enough to be out without a jacket. He sat on a chair on the porch and lit a cigarette, then inhaled deeply.  
  
And thought about Nikita.  
  
That was the only thing that could really calm him, the thought of her physical and emotional beauty. Nikita. He flicked the ashes on the ground and took a deep breath, released it, sighed. He needed to see her, to touch her and be touched. He needed someone to talk to, and she was the only one he had. If it weren't for Adam he would have started drinking heavily a long time ago. But he knew he couldn't do anything that would cloud his judgement. Smoking was bad enough.  
  
He stood and slid the tiny cell phone out of his pants pocket, then sat again. For a few moments he just slid his finger lightly over the numbered buttons. He could hear her voice in his mind and knew it would fill him with the relief that he craved. But like so many times before he knew he wouldn't make the call. He didn't want her to know about this. He didn't want her to know him like this.  
  
Their meetings since he left Section had been about playing together, enjoying one another. He didn't want to bring a shadow into that; they had lived long enough in those kinds of shadows. It was better if she thought he was happy.  
  
Michael laughed. He wondered what that would be like. He brought the cigarette back to his lips and inhaled again. Had he ever really been happy? He came closest to it with Nikita, close enough that he could do something as stupid as ask her to marry him.  
  
How the hell was that going to work? She was married to the Section, and he had his demons. There was no happily-ever-after ending for them.  
  
And yet he didn't entirely believe that, and that was why he had bought the ring and given it to her. Part of him was still fighting for them. He knew it was possible that after the initial elation she had second thoughts and tossed the ring in a drawer or the trash. But he didn't believe that. He knew she loved him the way he loved her - only, always.  
  
And he needed her. He looked at the phone again and punched in the numbers for her cell phone. But he didn't push send; instead he shut the phone off. He wouldn't call tonight. He would have to call soon - very soon - but not tonight. He stubbed out the cigarette and stood up. He could easily smoke another, but he knew if he did that he would wind up chain smoking the entire pack. He shoved the phone and cigarette pack in his pockets and headed out to do recon of the perimeter before he started breakfast.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
When Nikita dreamed it was of Michael and Adam, of having a family with them outside of the Section. And like tonight, she woke to an overwhelming sensation of sadness for what could be but wasn't.  
  
Her family.  
  
Nikita got out of bed and walked out on the balcony of her apartment. Somewhere Michael was out there with his son, living in freedom while she was still chained to the Section. She wondered where he was, what he was doing. Was he thinking of her, or did his new life keep him too busy to dwell on ghosts from the past. She looked at her hand where it rested on the railing, the ring clearly visible in the moonlight.   
  
Where are you?   
  
She had asked him not to tell her, not to give her any of the details of where he lived, not even the phone number - she didn't want the Section getting the information. Of course they both knew that if the Center really wanted to find him it would. She just prayed it had lost interest in him.   
  
Nikita certainly hadn't.  
She glanced over at the cell phone where it sat in the table charger. She had two cell phones, one for the Section and one exclusively for Michael. Both were on 24 hours, though the one for Michael was on vibrate when she was in the Section.  
  
Not that Michael had ever called when she was there.  
  
He rarely called at all. Sometimes Nikita wondered if the last time was the really the last time, if they would come to a point when he would no longer call. Did he need her as much as she needed him - or was this just a game for him, a diversion until he tired of it?  
  
Was he as lonely as she was?   
  
Call, she thought. I need you.  
  
But the phone didn't ring.   
  
She went to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. Michael. Damn him. Did he really love her? When she was with him it was unquestionable; she knew everything about him. But when they were apart... No, she knew he wanted to be with her. Hell, he wanted to marry her.  
  
How in the world was that going to work?  
  
Nikita drank the glass of wine and sighed. Call, call, call, she thought, trying to send the thought out across the miles. But the phone didn't ring.  
  
I love you, Michael. Only, always, you.  
  
She set the glass in the sink and went back to bed, curling up under the bedclothes, imagining the feeling of his body wrapped around hers.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Michael had taken a job on the docks loading and unloading ships and trucks. It kept him in shape and left his thoughts free to go where they always went.  
  
The phone was in his jeans pocket. He always brought it with him, but he never made a call from work. He just liked the feeling of it there, the possibility that he could call her if he chose to.   
  
But he wasn't going to call.  
  
He knew Nikita was busy running the Section; it was doubtful she even brought that cell phone with her. He knew how consuming the Section was. She probably never even thought of him, much less cared if he called.   
  
Maybe she had other men.  
  
He stopped in the midst of lifting a box. It wasn't such an impossibility; they rarely saw one another. But just the thought of it made Michael crazy, the idea of her smiling at another man, the idea of her touching another man the way she touched him.   
  
That wasn't possible; she loved him. She was going to marry him.  
  
And then what? They would continue to live separate lives?  
  
Did she really have other men?  
  
Michael had been approached by women - and men - with offers since he had been outside the Section, but he had taken no one up on it. He claimed to be newly widowed, and that made them back off. Yet he had been interested in and attracted to various women. Of course Nikita would feel the same about the men she met, and with the high stress situations she was in it was easy to give in.  
  
He pulled out the phone. He had to know. He punched in the numbers and then stopped. No. He had asked her to marry him; he had to trust her or at least truly believe that she cared for him as he did for her. Michael shoved the phone in his pocket and went back to work.   
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
When the phone began to vibrate Nikita excused herself from her meeting and found a deserted place in Section to take the call. Her heart was pounding when she answered it. "Hey."  
  
"My guess is you are expecting someone else." The male voice had a Slavic accent   
  
"Who is this?" she asked. "How did you get this number?"  
  
"Cell phones are not so safe," the man said. "This is Uri of Section Two."  
  
Nikita remembered Uri, Operations of Section Two - older, graying, always looking at her lasciviously during the meetings with Center. "What do you want?" she asked.  
  
"We can discuss that at The Ambassador," Uri said, referring to a local hotel.  
  
"We'll discuss it now or not at all," Nikita said.  
  
"So then you would not mind me telling Center about your meetings with Michael Samuelle?" Uri said.  
  
Nikita's stomach dropped. "There haven't been any," she said.  
  
"It is a shame he is so forgettable," Uri said.   
  
Nikita leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She knew he could have evidence: phone calls, photographs. "I haven't seen Michael in more than a year," she said.  
  
"And surely not at a dive like the Starlight Motel," Uri said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "I think you will find The Ambassador much more to your liking. Room 1322. Be there in an hour."  
  
Nikita looked at the phone. How... but she knew that like her Uri had all kinds of electronics and technical experts at his disposal. If something could be thought of there was a way to do it. She would have to get rid of the phone. If Michael wanted to contact her...  
  
No, there would be no more contact between them.   
  
She slid the ring off her finger and put it in her pocket. The dream was dead. She would take care of Uri, and that would be the end of it. She didn't care what happened to her, but there was too much risk in this for Michael and Adam. The only thing that mattered was that they were safe. She would do anything to ensure that.   
  
After notifying Grace that she would be out, Nikita left Section and headed to the hotel. She arrived early, gun drawn, a stolen master key in her hand. She used the key to open the door and pushed it open. The first thing she saw was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice on the table across from the door. Two crystal flute glasses stood in front of it. Bastard, Nikita thought. Did he really think she would play his game?  
  
"You're early," Uri called from the bedroom. "Come join me."  
  
Nikita readied her weapon and walked slowly toward the bedroom, keeping close to the walls. When she saw him she would fire; she wouldn't wait to see if he was armed. She took in a breath, swung around the corner and brought up the gun...  
  
...and stopped a millisecond before killing the love of her life.   
  
Nikita saw him there and understood that it was Michael, but her brain kept telling her he was Uri. She kept the gun on him, finger on the trigger, unable to process what was happening. Michael didn't move from where he was sprawled beneath the covers, his fine body outlined by the gold silk sheets. "What is this?" she asked.  
  
"Blackmail," Michael said, twisting his perfect Slavic accent into a soft parody.  
  
Nikita shook her head, trying to clear it. "Michael?" she said.  
  
"Oui."  
"Prove it." He smiled and threw back the covers. The naked body was his without question. She lowered the muzzle of the gun so it pointed at his genitals. "Give me a reason why I shouldn't emasculate you."  
  
"I will give you great pleasure," he said, his beautiful eyes shining.  
  
For a moment Nikita wondered if he was insane. "I could have killed you," she said. "One more second - one - and your blood would be all over that bed. Do you understand that."  
  
"Oui."  
  
"Damn it, Michael."  
  
"I trained you well."  
  
She slid her finger from the trigger. "This has nothing to do with training," she said. "This is nothing short of luck." Her anger boiled. "What if I had fired, Michael?" She could see it, and she turned away from him.  
  
She heard him get off the bed. "I went too far," he said. "I'm sorry." She moved away when he touched her and started to leave the room, but Michael grabbed hold of her and pushed her up against the wall. "Look at me," he growled softly, his body pressed against hers. "Have you harmed me?"  
  
"Let go of me, Michael," Nikita spit at him.  
  
"No," he said, crushing her to the wall, bringing his lips to hers in a fierce kiss.  
  
And Nikita didn't resist him for long.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Why would you do this?" Nikita asked. Michael was entwined with her in the silk sheets, his right hand on her belly, the left circling her breasts.  
  
"I would think it was self-explanatory," Michael said, trying to lighten the mood, but he could see that she was angry again.  
  
Nikita moved away slightly. "I believed this - I believed we were exposed," she said.  
  
Michael closed the space between them again and slid his arms around her, then brought his lips to her neck. "We are," he whispered. "Completely exposed."  
  
"This isn't funny, Michael," Nikita said. But when she brought her eyes to his her look had softened. "I love you. I thought I'd lost you."  
"You'll never lose me," he said. He kissed down her neck, down between her breasts.  
  
"They could destroy us. All they have to do is find out about the phone calls and follow us..."  
  
"No," Michael said.   
  
"Michael, you know..."  
  
"I know us," he said, kissing her. "We will make it through this."  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Nikita woke Michael gently. "I have to go," she said. She had watched him sleep for a while before dressing, returning the ring to its place on her finger.  
  
"Thank you," Michael said.  
  
"For what? she asked, caressing his face with the back of her hand.  
  
"Staying while I slept."  
  
"Why?" He looked away. "Why, Michael?"  
  
"I've had some dreams - about the Section."  
  
"Bad dreams."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Nikita looked in his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"There was no reason to."  
  
"You didn't want to?"  
  
Michael was silent for a moment, then said, "I didn't want to burden you."  
  
"I love you, Michael," she said. "Nothing about you could be a burden, least of all something like that." She paused a moment, then asked: "In these dreams...do I harm you?"  
  
He looked at her, and his shock brought her some relief. "No," he said. "They have harmed you or Adam, sometimes both of you. Then they come for me. I fight them - but I never win."  
  
"That's over now," Nikita said.  
  
"Of course," Michael said.  
  
Nikita looked at him. "Don't give me that," she said. "This is you and me, Michael."  
  
Michael sighed. "I've had them for so long," he said.   
  
"Then promise me something."  
  
"Anything."  
  
"You'll call me if you have another one." He hesitated, and she knew he wouldn't. "Promise."  
  
"I'm not..."  
  
"Promise."  
  
"Nikita."  
  
"Promise."  
  
"I promise. And you will call me if you need me."  
  
Nikita laughed. "We would be on the phone 24 hours," she said.  
  
Michael smiled. "Someday we will be together," he said.  
  
"Do you really think so?"  
  
"I...yes."  
  
"Do you think what Uri said could come true?"  
  
"Uri was a liar," Michael said.  
  
"But they could find a way to track the calls, to trace and record..."  
  
"And grow telepathic antennas out of their heads for reading our minds," Michael said.  
  
"You think this is funny?" Nikita said.  
  
"Que sera, sera," Michael said.  
  
"Please don't sing," Nikita said, rolling her eyes.   
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 


	3. Chapter 3: June, Very Soon

Chapter 3: June, Very Soon  
  
Nikita knew without doing the test. She just knew. But she did the test anyway, and it was positive.  
  
She stood for a moment looking in the bathroom mirror and wondering what she should do. She had to tell Michael - didn't she? No, of course not. She didn't have to tell him anything. She could take care of this without him ever finding out. No one had to find out, not Michael, not even the Section. She could take care of it discretely, eliminate the problem without anyone ever knowing.  
  
The problem. That was what it was, wasn't it? A problem, not a child, not the baby conceived during an act of love with Michael...  
  
Not their son or daughter.  
  
She had planned to be careful, and most of the time they had been; she was sure of that. But she couldn't be sure that there weren't times when she forgot, when they both didn't care enough about the consequences to use protection. Obviously there had been at least one time.  
  
She would have to take care of it. What else could she do? Just the idea of getting married was crazy, but that was a hell of a lot less crazy than having a child. And this life was too dangerous for a child anyway.  
  
Their child. Her child with Michael.  
  
Nikita put a hand over her belly and tried to imagine it, tried to imagine their child growing inside of her. She looked over at the phone and thought: Call.  
  
And the phone rang.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
At Nikita's insistence Michael had moved again, uprooting his life and Adam's, changing names, starting over again. Like usual he told her none of the details. He told her nothing at all about his daily life or the new house or the town where he and Adam lived. They spoke about nothing really - other than Section - but mostly even that topic was avoided. They had more or less nontopic conversations, words about nothing that went nowhere, play words, pointless words.  
  
He was tired of it.  
  
Michael was ready to build something, a real life that was going to last for more than a few weeks or months. He wanted some kind of security, but most of all he wanted a future with his son and Nikita, the woman who was going to be his wife. He wanted a real future, not just one where they continued to play games and pretend that was enough.  
  
She told him again and again that there would be a time when she would get out. He wanted it to be now, before something happened and they lost one another. Michael knew how easy it was to lose someone he loved, and he understood how fragile each moment was. If they continued to wait they would wait forever; what they were waiting for would never come. There would never be the perfect day when everything would fall into place for them to be together. They had to take the moment. They had to do it now.  
  
He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. He didn't know what he would say, but he knew something had to be said. The issue had to be broached; they had to do something.  
  
"Hey," Nikita said.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"What's up?"  
  
"We need to meet. I have something I need to talk to you about."  
  
There was a brief pause. "Sounds serious. Is this about the wedding?"  
  
"There's something else..."  
  
"I don't think we should meet before the wedding," Nikita said. "We shouldn't take any more risks than necessary. There's a mission going out tonight, and I'm not completely sold on the profile. They may..."  
  
"What's going on doing, Nikita?"  
  
"I'm not trying to back out, Michael. We'll get married; I want that."  
  
"You want what?"  
  
"To be your wife, to have you as my husband..."  
  
"And then what?"  
  
Nikita sighed. "What are you really asking, Michael?"  
  
"Don't you want a life, a family - our family?" There was a longer pause this time, and Michael sensed that she wasn't telling him something, some change that affected them. "What do you want, Nikita?" he asked.   
  
"That's what I want. But this isn't easy for me."   
  
"What isn't easy?"   
  
After a pause she said, "I need a little time to think."  
  
"If there's something...you can tell me," he said.  
  
"Just give me a day," Nikita said. "Call me tomorrow night."  
  
"OK," Michael said. He ended the call. What would she need time to think about? He stood up and paced the floor, then went outside and lit a cigarette. Maybe she wasn't going to ever leave the Section, he thought. Maybe she needed to find a way to tell him that this was all they were ever going to have, phone calls and brief meetings, a marriage in which nothing changed for either of them.  
  
A marriage that was a farce.   
  
He inhaled on the cigarette, closed his eyes for a moment, and blew out the smoke. He had begun the arrangement for the wedding: He bought the rings and various items for himself and for her. But what was the point? They didn't need to be married to do what they were doing. And he wasn't sure he wanted to go through with it as just another game. Maybe Nikita needed time to tell him they should wait on the wedding. Maybe she was going to tell him they wouldn't be able to see one another for a while...  
  
This was the first time she had refused to meet with him. Maybe that was only clue he needed, the sign that she was withdrawing from the relationship.  
  
And then what would he do? Go on with his life, raising Adam, without the moments of light with her that were the center of his existence.   
  
He would die inside.  
  
But if that was what she was going to tell him, he would agree it was for the best. He wouldn't push it. He wouldn't try to push her into something she didn't want. He would let go, even if it killed him.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Our family, Nikita thought.  
  
She had come so close to telling him, but she still wasn't certain how to handle it. Would he want her to have the child? How could she do that? Would he want to raise the child with her? How could they make it work?  
  
We can't, she thought, as she stood on the perch watching Grace pace Com as she did tactical support for the mission. There is no way; it doesn't make sense. It's the wrong time for a child. We have to wait until the right time...  
  
And what if the right time never comes?  
  
What if this is our only chance?  
  
There was only one thing about this that Nikita knew for certain: She wanted to have the child. She wanted to feel it grow inside her, and she wanted to hold it in her arms.   
  
But what about Michael?   
  
There was a breakdown in the mission; the team was being attacked. "Withdraw the team," Nikita said into the microphone that fed into Grace's earpiece.   
  
"We haven't achieved the objective."  
  
"Withdraw."  
  
"Of course," Grace said coolly.   
  
Nikita hit the switch that darkened the perch to outside view. She felt exhausted, and she knew that was more than just her worry about what to do about the child. It had been a long time since she had gotten any satisfaction from running the Section. When she had first taken over it had seemed like she would be able to make changes for the better, to improve the lives of the operatives and make things more humane. But then Center had stepped in with its delaying tactics, and her timeline for improvements had been first set aside and then discarded.   
  
Nothing changes in the Section, Michael had said, and she had argued with him. But in the end he was right - nothing had really changed. Instead she had become caught up in leading the same sort of Section Paul had led, one that was dark and hateful, suspicious and cruel.   
  
Her need for Michael had increased so that she was thinking of him every day, constantly playing with engagement ring on her finger and wondering when he would call her about the wedding. Even when she had started to feel strange and her period had been late, she had thought it just had to do with the stress of the Section. But she finally had to admit that something else was the cause.  
  
Someone else.  
  
I have to get out, Nikita thought. She put her hand against her belly. We have to get out.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
Michael woke with his heart thudding. The nightmare had surprised him; it had been nearly a month since he had one - since he and Nikita had met at The Ambassador. And this was different than the ones he had before that. In this one Nikita did harm him.  
  
Or her absence harmed him.   
  
Michael replayed it in his mind. This one started in Section One. Dressed in the black he was standing in the open section in front of the darkened perch. Nikita was there, and he knew she wasn't coming down. They weren't going to get married; there would be no future between them. "You were always so easily fooled," a familiar voice said. Michael looked to his left as Madeline emerged. But that wasn't possible: Madeline was dead. "Section can work all kinds of wonders these days," she said. "You'll see."  
  
"I'm done with the Section," Michael said.  
  
Madeline laughed. "You know it doesn't work like that, Michael," she said. Michael had looked up at the perch, and he could just make out the figure there, Nikita. "Operations is always Operations," Madeline said. "It's time to debrief." Michael had felt the nudge of a gun against his back.   
  
He had looked back at the perch once more, but the figure was gone. Nikita was gone, his Nikita, dissolved into shadows, lies, deceptions...endless strings of deceptions.  
  
I need the truth, Michael thought. Whatever it is, I need it now. He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers.  
  
"Michael, I told you..."  
  
"I had a nightmare," he said.  
  
"About the Section?" Nikita asked.  
  
"About us," Michael said. "Tell me, Nikita. Whatever it is, tell me."  
  
"I'm pregnant."  
  
It wasn't at all what Michael expected. Pregnant? "Is it mine?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Michael slid down to the floor and sat with his back against the wall. "Have you made a decision?" he asked.  
  
"I need to get out."  
  
"Of the Section," Michael whispered. It wasn't a question.  
  
"Yes. I need to get out. I need to be with you." Michael closed his eyes and released the breath he had been holding. "Is that what you want?"  
  
"Yes. Will you have the baby?"  
  
Nikita was silent for a long moment. Then she said: "I don't know what to do, Michael."  
  
"Go to Center," Michael said. "Work something out."  
  
"They won't just let me go."  
  
"We have to make a move now. We have to do this for our family. We're out of time."  
  
"Our family."  
  
"Our child is part of this now," Michael said.  
  
"Do you want this child?"  
  
"Yes," he said. "Without a doubt." He licked his lips and waited a moment before saying, "Do you?"  
  
"If I'm with you..."  
  
"You will be."  
  
"Michael, don't do anything, don't make contact..."  
  
"Don't worry about me," he said. "Just go to Center."  
  
"You know how things are, Michael..."  
  
"This isn't about them anymore, Nikita. This is our blood; this you and me."  
  
"Both of us."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Are you all right? What was the nightmare?"  
  
"That doesn't matter. All that matters now is taking action."  
  
"Michael, you..."  
  
"I'll be careful, I promise."  
  
"I love you."  
  
"I love you, too."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Go to Center, Nikita thought, Michael's voice clear in her head as she walked through the doors that lead to the waiting area for Mr. Wilson, the newest Head of Center. Before she could sit the door to Wilson's office swung open.  
  
She was dressed in a black suit complete with a short-sleeved jacket, a black silk tank with lace around the collar, and a black skirt with a lace hem that ended inches above her knees. Onyx bracelets encircled her wrists, but the only other piece of jewelry was the engagement ring.   
  
Michael, she thought. Our child, our family. And she walked through the door into Wilson's office.  
  
Wilson's office was large, and Nikita's heels clicked on the hardwood surface. Wilson stood; his hair was gray but he didn't seem old - most likely he was not yet 60. He smiled, but Nikita knew smiles meant nothing here. There was no kindness or happiness in this world; there was only manipulation.  
  
Wilson stood to the right of his large oak desk topped with several neat piles of papers, dossiers, and reports. He held out his hand as Nikita approached. Nikita grasped it firmly; his hand was warm. "Good to see you, Nikita," he said in a smooth, even tone.  
  
"Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Wilson," Nikita said.  
  
He indicated a round glass table and two chairs near the desk. Nikita walked over and sat on one of the black metal chairs. Wilson sat on the other chair, to her right. "How have you been?" Wilson asked.  
  
"Very well, thank you."  
  
"And how is Section One?"  
  
"Operating at optimal proficiency."   
  
Wilson leaned back in his chair. "Well, then - how is Michael Samuelle?"  
  
Nikita froze, but she fought to keep her surprise hidden. "I wouldn't know," she said.  
  
Wilson smiled. "Center knows everything, Nikita. You should know that. Cappuccino?"  
  
"No, thank you." Nikita's heart was thudding. Could Wilson really know about them?   
  
"Michael was a good operative, one of the best. But he always hated it - almost as much as you do." Nikita said nothing. "I would guess that the two of you have always found some solace in your common dislike for this world."   
  
"I came here to speak with you about my agreement with Center," Nikita said. "I made certain sacrifices for the sake of Mr. Jones. I have fulfilled my obligations."  
  
"And now you want a life on the outside."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why now?"  
  
"It's time."  
  
"That's a lovely ring," Wilson said, gesturing toward where Nikita's hand rested on the table.   
  
"Thank you."  
  
"There are always people watching, Nikita, wherever you are, whatever you do. And there are people watching Michael."  
  
No, Nikita thought. "Should I care?" she asked.  
  
"Should you? Not if you were to be the ideal Operations for Section One. Do you? Of course. You've always cared too much about Michael. It was always a distraction for you and for him. It still is. If you wish to be with him, that can be done. The Center will withdraw its tendrils. Is that what you wish?"  
  
"I wish for a life outside."  
  
"Nikita," Wilson said. "I cannot give you that life unless you lay all your cards face up on the table." His lips curled slightly. "Let me make it easier for you: If you continue to deny him I will have to assume that he has been compromised, and as such, he will be brought here for debriefing and cancellation."  
  
Nikita held his gaze, her hands steady on the table. She understood that if they truly knew where Michael was they would do what he said. And she knew what debriefing meant in this context; debriefings of hostiles within Center itself were the definition of cruel and inhuman. So the question was, did they know? Wilson's face betrayed nothing. "Michael could never be compromised," she said, buying more time.  
  
"Anyone can be, Nikita," he said. "Especially someone who hates who we are as much as he does. He could easily be contracting with a terrorist outfit. There is plenty of money in that to support oneself and a child, to save for that child's future."  
  
"Michael hates terrorism as much as..."  
  
Wilson stood. "I wish I could have given you some assistance," he said, holding out his hand.  
  
Nikita felt a shiver slide through her. They would hurt Michael - they would hurt him badly before killing him. She had only a second or two to decide. It had been Michael himself who had said she should go to Center, work something out. Nothing had been worked out. At best she had been delivered an empty threat, and Michael would not be harmed. At worst she had lost everything, and Michael would suffer terribly. There was only one light in the darkness...she could admit the truth and pray that Wilson would keep his word. She looked at the ring and thought of the baby, thought of that one chance in a million that she could have a life with Michael and their child. "I want to be with him," she said.   
  
"Michael Samuelle."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Wilson withdrew his hand and resumed his seat. "So we proceed," he said. "You will be released from your obligation from Section One following the completion of one final task."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"You will cancel Grace."  
  
"Grace? Why?"  
  
"She has taken a terrorist as a lover and protected him. You will cancel her tonight, and you will be released." Nikita was stunned. She had thought Grace was the perfect Section operative. Of course even if she weren't, Nikita didn't want to kill her in cold blood - especially when there no real guarantee that if she did she would go free. But she had already begun her deal with this devil, and she would have to follow through with it. "Do we have an agreement?" Wilson asked, holding out his hand.   
  
"Of course," Nikita said grasping it. "Thank you."  
  
"My pleasure," Wilson said.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Michael watched Adam playing in the schoolyard. He knew they were there; he always knew. Sometimes he could see them, but most of the time it was just a feeling. No matter where he took Adam they always showed up, watching.  
  
It was a tiresome sensation.  
  
Michael felt for his gun. He had done enough surveillance and kill/capture scenarios to know how they worked. If they wanted him they would have him. He understood that.  
  
But there was a new life to think of now, one that he and Nikita had created together. Their son or daughter. The product of their love. The proof of its endurance.  
  
Only, always, Michael thought. Us. Our love. Our family.   
  
He smiled and hoped the operatives watching saw it.   
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Nikita was already in the room when they brought Grace in.   
  
Grace wasn't struggling; she let the other operatives lead her to the chair and then strap her in before they left without a word. Nikita stood at the back of the room looking at her. She still wasn't sure that Grace had betrayed the Section. But she knew had to do what was necessary to get out, to be with Michael and have their child.  
  
Even if it meant killing an innocent woman.  
  
But no one in the Section was really innocent were they - even if they came in that way. Nikita had been falsely accused of the crime that put her in prison - but she had committed plenty since being brought into the Section. "We know about William," she said.  
  
"William who?" Grace asked.  
  
Nikita ignored the question. "We know he is a terrorist with Red Cell."  
  
"I don't know who you are talking about. I don't know anyone from Red Cell."  
  
"He's been taken care of," Nikita said. There was no reaction from Grace. What is this? Nikita wondered. Are they really having me execute an innocent? Was that Center's one last stab at her humanity, forcing her to commit a murder, to kill out of the greedy need to have her own and live with that guilt forever?  
  
"I don't know who you're talking about," Grace said, her voice steady, her eyes fixed on Nikita's.  
  
Nikita doubts increased. "It doesn't matter," she said, both to Grace and to herself. "The order has been given."  
  
"Then do it," Grace said.  
  
Nikita brought up the gun and held it steady, aimed at the heart. Her finger pressed against the trigger...but she knew she couldn't do it. She began to release her pressure on the trigger - when she heard the sound of a gun discharging behind her, two quick spits and then a third. She was certain that she had been shot, that her life was over as well as that of her child, Michael's child.  
  
But then she saw the blood blossom on Grace's white shirt and drizzle down from the red eye on her forehead. Nikita turned...and looked at Michael.  
  
He stood there dressed in black like some vision from the past, as though time had somehow doubled back - or collapsed in on itself. "She was lying," he said softly.  
  
"Why are you here?" Nikita asked.  
  
"To finish things," Michael said.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Michael leaned against the wall of the perch. "Wilson suspected you wouldn't be able to do it," he said. "That was why he was willing to let you go - because they could never really make you what they wanted."  
  
"And you, Michael? What did they make you?" Nikita asked, pacing.  
  
Michael saw the anger, confusion, and hurt in her. "An offer I couldn't refuse," he said.  
  
At the far end of the perch from him she stopped and turned. "Which means what?"  
  
"I did some consulting for them," he said. "The money was good. I did some surveillance - like tracking Grace with William. This was the end of it, the last thing." He turned away from her and looked out at the Section. "It was something I had to do."  
  
"Live your nightmare," Nikita said.  
  
"No," Michael said. "face this place again on my own terms. To come in and know the door is open to leave."   
  
"Is that really the truth, Michael?" Nikita asked.   
  
Michael smiled. He walked over to her and dropped the bag he had brought with him at her feet. "You'll find everything you'll need in there," he said. "I'll be waiting downstairs."   
  
"What is this?" Nikita asked.  
  
"You'll see." Michael left the perch and walked down the stairs, looking at the operatives moving about. He headed in the direction of his former office, went inside, and closed the door. What he needed was there, waiting for him.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Nikita kneeled down, unzipped the bag, and went through its contents. Inside was a short simple dress of ivory silk that tied at the neck, long ivory gloves, a circle of ivory and pink silk flowers with a short veil attached, a bouquet of similar silk flowers, and ivory boots. Nikita sat on the floor for a moment, looking at these items, tears sliding from her eyes one after the other, traveling in silent trails down her cheeks. She didn't know if it was relief or love or hormones or a combination of the three.  
  
She dressed slowly, her hands shaking, finally looking at herself in the glass of the perch. It would do, she thought, and she laughed out loud. She saw that something still remained in the bag, a smaller bag that produced four more items when she opened it: a lovely antique-looking cameo, a glistening diamond bracelet, a cufflink, and a blue garter. Old, new, borrowed, and blue. Michael had thought of everything.  
  
Nikita tossed her old clothes and the small bag into the bigger bag and left it in a corner of the perch. Then she picked up the bouquet and walked out to the staircase. She saw Michael waiting below dressed in a tuxedo, her beautiful Michael, and he smiled when he saw her, a real, honest smile. She walked down the stairs and over to him, handing the bouquet off to an operative before taking his hands. Lost in his eyes she barely heard the words they recited to one another, barely cared what they were.  
  
They were together now, finally, forever. Only, always.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 


End file.
